Maggie nodded and turned toward Nat. “And this is my partner, Nat Southby.” Maggie extended one of her business cards. “As I said on the phone, we won’t keep you long.”
“What’s it about?” the woman asked warily, glancing at the card. She drew her daughter closer to her. “What is it you want?”
“Can we come in and we’ll explain,” Nat said smilingly. “We’re not here to harm you. We just want to talk to you about Jonathan Standish.”
“What has he to do with you?”
“We’ve been hired to look into his death.”
“You told me over the phone that he was murdered,” she said flatly.
“Please let us come in and talk to you about it,” Maggie said.
The woman hesitated a moment longer before opening the door wider. She led them past a small waiting room furnished with miniature chairs, tables, and shelves packed with toys and books, and into a bright living room that looked over a garden full of spring flowers and pink roses.
“Who hired you?”
“Alice Standish and her sister Jane hired us. They weren’t happy with the suicide verdict.”
A small smile curved the woman’s lips. “She couldn’t collect the insurance, you mean. And I guess it was Aaron Standish who gave you my number?” She looked over to her young daughter who, although playing with the dog on the rug, was obviously taking in the conversation. “Jenny, take Rex outside in the garden to play.”
“Aw, mom . . .”
“Go.” She walked over to the French doors and opened them. “We’ll take him for a long walk later.” She waited until her daughter had left the room and then turned back to say, “You didn’t answer my question. Was it Aaron who gave you my number?”
“No,” Maggie answered. “His wife.” Maggie related the telephone conversation she’d had with Irma that morning. “She seems very frightened of her husband.”
“She didn’t even tell him I’d called?” she said then shook her head. “I can’t say that I’m surprised. It’s hard to believe that Jonathan, who was such a gentle person, could have sired such a nasty piece of work as Aaron.”
“I didn’t think you’d met.”
“We haven’t, but Jonathan told me about his son and Catherine his first wife and Alice his second.” She sighed. “He made some very bad choices in his life.” Then she laughed derisively. “Apart from Jenny and me, that is.”
“Can you tell us about it?”
“Will it help find his murderer?”
“It might.”
“I don’t want Jenny dragged into a sordid murder enquiry.”
“We’ll do our best,” Nat answered. “When did you first meet Jonathan Standish?”
“About twelve years ago. I was a very hard-up medical student, interning at the hospital where his wife was being treated for lung cancer. He visited her most days and I just happened to be assigned to her ward.” She shrugged. “We got to talking . . . and it sort of went from there.”
“So what happened to end it?”
“About the time I was graduating his wife became very ill and I guess he felt guilty . . . Anyway . . . we stopped seeing each other.”
“Was that his idea or yours?” Nat asked.
“His. I was heartbroken at the time, and as soon as I graduated, I went back to Toronto and took a job at the children’s hospital there. Then,” she laughed, “I found out I was pregnant.”
“Whatever did you do?” Maggie asked.
“Luckily for me my parents live in Toronto. After Jenny was born, they took care of her so that I could find work in a medical clinic. It was tough, though.”
“Did you let Jonathan know about the baby?”
Judith shook her head. “No.”
“But you came back to Vancouver?” Nat asked.
“Yes, three years ago. I thought it was time Jonathan met his daughter. But I might have thought twice about returning if I’d known he’d remarried.”
“You hadn’t corresponded at all?” Maggie asked.
“No. I waited until I had established a practice here before contacting him. I didn’t want him to think he was obligated to look after us.” She walked over to the window where she could see her daughter.
“Jonathan must’ve been very surprised,” Nat remarked wryly.
“He was. Very! And so was I when he told me he’d remarried.”
“But you started seeing him again?” Maggie said.
“It was Jenny. He fell in love with his daughter.”
“Why did you try to contact Aaron?” Maggie asked.
Judith, still looking pensively out of the window, took a few moments before replying. “I wanted to talk to Aaron about his father. I knew Jonathan well. And he would never have taken his own life, especially under the circumstances.”
“What do you mean, under the circumstances?”
“Didn’t that woman tell you that Jonathan had started divorce proceedings?” She gave a bitter laugh. “No, of course she didn’t.”
“Alice knew about you?” Maggie asked, surprised.
“Jonathan kept our identity secret but she must have suspected when he asked for a divorce.”
“Do you have the name of the divorce lawyer?” Nat asked.
“No. Jonathan kept all that to himself.” She pondered for a moment. “He got the name from his business lawyer . . . some funny name . . . Snood . . . Snod . . . Snodgrass. That was it . . . Snodgrass. But I haven’t a clue where he’s located.”
But I do, Maggie thought.
Maggie stood and opened her handbag. “This is the reason we came looking for you.” She pulled out the photographs of Judith and her daughter. “We found them in his studio.”
“Has that woman seen them?” Judith asked fearfully, thrusting them back into Maggie’s hands.
Maggie nodded. “She said you were just models for the figurines in the studio. But,” Maggie added, “she’s getting curious about the person leaving pink roses on Jonathan’s grave and asked us to look into it.”
“I . . . oh, dear.” Judith looked stricken. “Please don’t tell her where we live.”
“We won’t,” Nat answered. “But it’s a murder case now, and since we managed to find you, others could as well. You’ve got our card,” he added as he rose to stand beside Maggie. “Please call if you think of anything that will help us find his killer.”
“You haven’t told us your name,” Maggie said.
The woman hesitated before replying, “I guess you’ll find out anyway. It’s Sloan, Doctor Judith Sloan.”
• • •
“I RATHER LIKED her,” Maggie remarked as she slid into the passenger’s seat. “She’s naturally scared for her daughter’s sake, but she’s got guts to come back to Vancouver and open a practice.”
“But why is she so scared?” Nat asked as he pulled out into the traffic.
Maggie was quiet for a moment before posing a question of her own. “And if she wanted to keep a low profile, why go to see Aaron? After all, she’s waited this long. And what do we tell Alice? She asked us to find out who was leaving those roses.”
“M-m-m. We’ll tell her that Jane was right and she’s just a model that Jonathan used for the figurines.”
“But she’s going to find out eventually.”
“We can do a bit more digging in the meantime. Now,” he added, “are you really going over to Harry’s tomorrow?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harry greeted her at the door and led her into the living room. The house in Kerrisdale looked just the same, even the same faint smell of lavender furniture polish, and she found herself automatically sitting in her favourite chair opposite Harry by the fireside.
“Midge is making tea,” he announced.
“She’s here already?”
“Of course she’s here. After all, it’s her wedding. Mother should be arriving soon, too.”
“Your mother! Why is she coming?” Honoria Spencer had never approved of her only son’s ch
oice—and their separation had proved her point.
“Now, Margaret,” Harry said defensively, “Midge is her granddaughter and she wants to be part of the planning.” The doorbell rang as if on cue. “Ah, there she is now.”
Harry went to open the door for his mother as Midge appeared from the kitchen carrying a loaded tea tray. She raised her eyebrows at Maggie as she bent to place the tray on the coffee table. “Inviting Grandma was not my idea,” she hissed.
Honoria, dressed in a beige silk suit, matching straw hat, and sensible brown oxfords, leaned heavily on a silver-knobbed cane as she walked into the room. “Margaret! What a surprise to see you here. You’ve managed to find time to get away from that . . . that place where you work?”
Don’t let her get to you. Maggie rose from her chair. “Why don’t you sit here? Midge has just brought in the tea and some delicious-looking scones.”
“And before you ask, Grandmother,” Midge cut in, “I didn’t make them. I’m not a good cook like my mother.”
“Mrs. Jennings, my housekeeper, made them,” Harry cut in quickly. “And I’m sure you are an excellent cook, Matilda.” He looked anxiously at the three women. “Now shall we get on with the arrangements?” He produced a lined legal pad and a pen. “I’ve ordered three cars . . .”
Why did he ask me here? Maggie thought, listening to his pompous voice droning on. He’s made all the necessary arrangements.
“Now is there anything I’ve left out?” Harry eventually asked, picking up his cup of now cold tea.
“I’m so glad you took my advice and the wedding is going to be at Christ Church Cathedral.” Honoria beamed at her son. “That’s where your father and I were married.”
“I know, Mother. It is also very handy to the Hotel Vancouver where the reception is to be held.”
“Did you tell the car service that I need to be picked up in plenty of time, Harry?” Honoria banged her cane on the floor. “My girl will help me get ready.” She turned to Maggie. “What colour are you wearing? My dress is a soft rose silk with matching accessories, and as we’ll be sitting next to each other, we certainly don’t want to clash.”
Maggie felt like telling her she was wearing mustard yellow and lime green, but managed to bite her tongue. “We won’t clash,” she said, thinking of the beautiful blue lace gown she and Midge had picked out—perfect for the mother-of-the-bride.
“And that reminds me,” Harry’s mother continued, “What are you doing about Barbara?”
“What about her?” Maggie asked, mystified.
“What will she wear to cover her . . . her . . . pregnancy? Perhaps she should stay home.”
“Why would she stay home?” Midge asked incredulously. “It’s quite a normal thing to be expecting a baby.”
“In my day,” Honoria said haughtily, “women in that delicate condition didn’t show themselves in public.”
“Thank God times have changed,” Midge answered. “And my sister is welcome at my wedding even if she’s the size of an elephant.”
Good for you, Midge, Maggie thought. She had never known Midge to answer back to the old battle-axe, but she thought she had better break the tension. “I must be going. Do you want a lift home, Honoria?”
“My taxi will be here at four.” Maggie could tell the old girl was still nettled. She turned to her son. “Of course, you’ve placed me at the head table . . .”
“Yes, of course, Mother,” Harry answered her absently. “I’ll see you out, Margaret.”
“I’ll kill her if she spoils Midge’s day,” Maggie warned Harry as she slipped on her coat in the hallway.
“My mother means well, Margaret.” He bent to kiss her on the cheek. “You will make sure you’re here on time, won’t you? After all, a girl needs her mother on her wedding day, and . . . and . . . I need you, Margaret. I miss you very much, you know.”
Harry, looking forlorn, stood in the open doorway and watched Maggie back her car out of the driveway. She discovered she had quite a lump in her throat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It’s a pity I have to go to the office on a day like today, Maggie thought. It was still before seven in the morning and she was walking Oscar through the leafy paths of the park close to her home on 5th Avenue in Kitsilano. Apart from Kent, England, where Maggie grew up, she thought there was no other place to be than Vancouver in the spring. They passed several other dogs and walkers and Oscar did his best to greet every one of them. As she turned for home, Maggie thought about her visit to Harry the day before and tried to analyze her feelings toward him. They had been very close through the first years of their marriage, though like many other young couples they had gone through some very rough times. By the time the two girls were born, Harry had become so mired in his job that they had slowly drifted apart and she had become totally bored with being the dutiful housewife. She smiled to herself—she certainly couldn’t complain of being bored now!
• • •
AS USUAL, HENNY had arrived in the office first. The coffee was on and she had brought in a fresh batch of her infamous cookies.
“It is lucky I made these,” she said proudly, setting eight of her overdone delicacies on a plate. “Sergeant George is coming to see you and Mr. Nat.”
“He is? Did he say why?”
“No. But it is police business,” she stated.
“How do you know it is police business if he didn’t tell you why he was coming?”
“Because he said another policeman coming, too. Funny fishy name . . .”
“You didn’t write it down?”
“No.” Henny wrinkled her brows in concentration. “Herring? Salmon?”
“Haddock?” Maggie said.
“Yes, Haddock. I knew it was fish.” She smiled triumphantly at Maggie.
“Constable Haddock. Sergeant George say you know him.”
Maggie nodded. “Forgotten all about that man. He was Inspector Farthing’s old sidekick.”
• • •
THE DUO ARRIVED slightly after ten.
“Gone up in the world, I see,” Haddock remarked, scanning the enlarged office space. “Very nice. George tells me you’re some kind of partner and got your own office.” He shifted a wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other. “So where’s the big boss?”
“In his own big office,” Maggie replied sarcastically. “Henny, would you ask Nat to join us in my office.” She turned back to the two men. “After you, gentlemen.” She pointed to her own domain.
“Are those cookies for us?” George stage-whispered to Henny just as Nat walked in. Maggie could see George was having trouble keeping a straight face.
Henny blushed. “Yes, Mr. George. I must have known you come today.”
“So what’s up?” Nat asked breezily as he toted an extra chair into Maggie’s room.
“Ah, we have the honour of Stan Haddock’s company, as well.” He looked expectantly at George.
“I’ve been officially assigned to the Donitz murder and Stan’s my new partner.”
“What happened to Luigi?”
“Taken an early retirement. I’m going to miss him,” George replied in a doleful voice. “We’d been together since you and I were partners.”
“Long time ago,” Nat answered. “Now why do you want to see us?”
“You went to the deceased’s apartment.” Haddock had addressed his remark to Maggie, and he followed this up by reaching over to pick up a glass paperweight from her desk and then proceeded to heft it from one hand to the other.
Maggie nodded. “So?”
“Farthing says you’re both meddling in police business . . . again.”
Now Maggie remembered how irritating Haddock had been the first time he came to the agency with Farthing. The man couldn’t keep still for a second. “Officer, would you please put that down before you drop it. And yes I did visit the apartment in the company of Alex Donitz’s girlfriend.”
“What was she doing there?” George asked. He looked up
to smile at Henny who had placed a cup of coffee and a couple of cookies on the edge of Maggie’s desk directly in front of him.
“You want coffee?” Henny asked George’s partner.
“Never touch the stuff.”
“A cookie?” Hennie persisted.
Haddock took one look at the overdone and misshapen lumps on the plate, then shuddered and shook his head. “No thank you.”
“She was looking after the dead man’s cats,” Maggie answered George.
“You didn’t go there to see cats,” Haddock said sarcastically. “What did you go there for?”
“Probably the same reason you went, Mr. Haddock. I wanted to have a look around.”
“We didn’t find anything of any real interest—in fact, the apartment was pretty sparsely furnished.” George took a bite of his burnt offering. “Did you find something we missed?”
Maggie glanced at Nat and he gave a slight nod. “Okay. This is what happened . . .” and she told him all that had occurred at Donitz’s apartment the day before.
“Sounds as if you had a very close call,” George said when Maggie had finished. “And these paintings—do you think they were genuine . . . what did you call them?”
“Krieghoff, Cornelius Krieghoff. I can’t say for sure, George, as I’m no expert. But they weren’t prints, and why would the man take a chance and come into the apartment and grab them like that if they weren’t originals?” The four of them were silent for a few moments and then Maggie added, “They could be the reason that Alex was killed.”
“You mean that he was the real target and it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity, as we surmised?”
“But no one would be killed for just a bunch of paintings by some unknown,” Haddock cut in. “Now if they’d been painted by that Frenchie Mo-nette, then you could understand somebody snatching them.” Maggie squirmed at the mispronunciation of Monet. “No, it has to be something else.”
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